* * *
April
30, 1944
My Dearest
Wife,
Darling
the radio is playing sweet music and it makes me miss you like the devil.
Darling, I’m so much in love with you. Dear, you tell me that you bought a new
perfume and dusting powder? I’m glad. Gee, the letter you spritzed smells good.
I love you and nothing will ever change that.
I’m
lonesome, darling.
Love,
XXXXXXX
Forever and ever your loving husband,
Ed
P.S. Gee, you
look sweet in the picture you sent. You’re always sweet to me.
* * *
After
Mom died, Dad’s life without her became our primary focus. Annette returned two
weeks later so we could monitor Dad closely. He didn’t grieve consciously and
outwardly because he couldn’t remember Mom or their marriage. Was the shock of
her death and being alone temporarily blocked or would he remain oblivious to
the fact that he’d been married for sixty-six years to his Ibby and she was
gone?
We’d always
referred to Mom and Dad, Ed and Ibby, the two names combined, never thinking of
one without the other. Dad’s life alone was a drastic change.
Annette continued to
visit about every six weeks. I saw Dad on Saturdays and sometimes after work.
Every time I
visited Dad, I asked staff and aides how he was doing. Aides believed overall he
was fading due to loneliness, but he didn’t realize whom he was missing. We
talked about his slow decline, based upon a loss he was unable to understand,
verbalize, or pinpoint––the loss of Ibby.
Dad loved to be
hugged when I came to visit. One time he said, “I’m so glad you’re here,
because nobody hugs me anymore.” He would wiggle his back whenever I rubbed my
hand across it, like a dog might twitch or wag his tail when petted. He and Mom
had been physically close, right up to the time of her death. Often, when I’d
come to visit, while Mom was still living, I’d find them cuddled up––Mom’s back
nested against Dad’s chest––in one twin bed napping.
For the most part,
however, Dad remained happy and gracious. It was as if he was on autopilot.
This was the way he had always faced life. Nearly every week, I’d hear him
repeat the words he and Mom had often said together: “I’m so happy.” “I’ve been
so lucky.” “This is a wonderful
place.” Frequently he used the pronoun “we” when reciting this mantra, just out
of sixty-six years of habit.
During an October
visit, Annette and I went directly from the airport to see Dad. He was excited to
see us. He said, “What do you want to do?” We knew it was a good day because of
his energetic reaction to us. We asked him if he’d like to go out to dinner. He
was eager.
As we were getting
him ready to leave, Annette and I were doing a couple of things around the room,
tidying up and organizing a bit. He started to say, “You are my..., You are
my…, You are my…,” and he searched for a word he wanted to use. Annette and I were
doing little tasks as we listened for what word he was going to fill in the
missing blank. We wondered if he knew we were his daughters. Could he retrieve
the word ‘daughters?’ Was he tempted to say the word daughters? Perhaps he
wasn’t sure if we were his daughters or his aides. So many scenarios ran
through our minds during those split seconds. Finally, he completed the thought
by saying, “You are my special people.”
Those words ‘special people’ would have worked in either situation. I don’t
know if his thought process could have been that complex. The bottom line was,
he knew we were doing something nice for him.
That night as we
ate dinner, he relished every morsel. Observers could have perceived him a
normal elderly gentleman. However, there were many silences in our
conversation. He repeated questions such as, “How are you?” and “How’s your
family?” Even though he didn’t know who we were, our relationship to him, or
who the people were in our families.
The next day there
was a downward turn in his clarity and demeanor. When Annette and I arrived, he was
sitting in a chair in the common room. In a bewildered voice he said, “I just
bought gas.” He gestured to his walker, as though he was carrying the gas
within the walker. Then he continued, “But, I can’t find my car. Can you help
me find my car?” He continued to repeat and ruminate in agitated confusion,
obsessing on thoughts of the car and the gas for about fifteen minutes, even
though we tried to change the subject. He finally picked himself up out of his
negative thought process and turned it around by saying, “Well, I guess I
shouldn’t let these things worry me.”
On the final day
of that visit, Annette and I spent about half an hour sitting with Dad outside the
locked unit, by a fireplace. Conversation was slow––much of the time was spent
in silence. We were just content to breathe the same air. When the time came
for Annette to say her goodbyes, we returned Dad to the locked unit, and I stepped
about ten feet away to give Dad and Annette some privacy. Dad looked at me and
caught my attention by saying, “Hey, hey.” Then motioned toward Annette, saying to
me, “Have you met my daughter?” This jarred both Annette and me. We realized he was
connected to Annette, because he called her his daughter––however, he had completely
drifted away from his recognition of me. He talked to me as though I was a
stranger, politely introducing me to his daughter.
During this
October trip, Annette witnessed first-hand Dad’s unpredictable shift from relative
clarity to total obscurity––things I’d tried to describe to her by phone.
Leaving, walking
through the locked doors, arms linked, Annette and I shook our heads, swallowing
hard to swallow our tears. There were just no words to explain how lost Dad
was...
